


Tactile Expression

by MsSir



Series: One [2]
Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F, fiction&femslashevent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-26 01:08:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20733737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsSir/pseuds/MsSir
Summary: Miranda doesn't trust words with murky definitions.





	Tactile Expression

Speechlessness was not a state Miranda spent any significant time in. She took pride in her ability to create trends, insults, art, and everything in-between using her power of expression--her words. She has spent years criticizing, encouraging, manipulating, forming the world of fashion using little else but words and facial expressions (almost no one sees the sketches some of her words first take shape as). Even in her world outside of _ Runway_, Miranda expressed her desires, prides, disappointments through these measures; although, she's learned she is less likely to be heard or understood outside of her workplace kingdom.

Miranda could count, on less than one hand, the number of times she'd encountered a thought, an emotion, an experience, an anything she couldn't explain or express; each one outlined in a journal, proof she tried to work through it, finding English (and French) lacking in the process. And as she looked into Andrea's eyes, the confession (fresh and powerful) rolling around Miranda's being made it clear another moment would be added to her list. Andrea was in love and Miranda swallowed her question of _ are you sure your love can hold the all of this? _ and touched the brunette's cheek.

There was a smile on Andrea's face and in her eyes that answered the unasked question in the affirmative and Miranda kissed her. For a moment she thought she could taste confusion, but she shifted the connection and attempted to press every thought and feeling into Andrea with her mouth.

When the kiss ended, Andrea breathed Miranda's name, she managed to use the syllables as a prayer and a plea. Miranda kissed her again and attempted to find the answers, the words, on Andrea's skin using her lips and fingers and tongue.

* * *

Miranda has a way of touching, of caressing, that Andy only ever attempted to explain in relation to clothing. She's still surprised by how gentle Miranda's touch is, by how focused it can become. When Miranda touches clothing, the first time she's in its presence, her fingers seem to become part of the cloth; she appears transformed. It's as if she is watching the designer create and revise their art. As if she is the first to see the completed sketch and the addition of color. As if she is watching the fabrics and hems be decided. As if she is standing over the seamstress as they lay each stitch. As if she becomes the first model to walk it down a runway; to wear it during a photo shoot. It's as if Miranda's light and seemingly simple touch allows her the whole of its creation and the trajectory of its future.

Andy can't help but allow the action to steal her concentration whenever she's in a place to witness it. She'd even started to categorize the different versions and intensities; there's levels of the touch for things (accessories, books, coffee), for people (peers, friends, associates), and for family (her siblings, her children); but Andy has only ever seen it directed in its full power and glory at clothing, at art.

Then Miranda placed the whole of that touch onto Andy's skin. The intensity, the focus, the curiosity, the desire to see and understand. Andy felt all of it through the delicate and persistent movements that left no part of her untouched.

* * *

Miranda pulled an orchestra of sighs, moans, and benedictions from Andrea. They were wrapped in grabs, orgasms, smiles, and truths. In the end, she learned her own definitions too small and lacking.

* * *

Miranda has heard those words three more times since the first; each utterance followed closely by a kiss that doesn't allow her a chance to reply (and she has yet to return the phrase). That particular kiss, deep but not lingering, was shared with Miranda three times (she hadn't been able to coax it out of any other situation). Instead, Andrea would grin at some quiet meaning and gave Miranda a type of space and patience she wasn't used to receiving.

But years worth of interacting with other people reminded Miranda that even the largest reservoirs can run dry, so she spent time in her journal, trying to refine the language in her mind, to redefine it to match what she knows Andrea meant. Days later, she still struggled with a lifetime of training, with the limits family and ex-husbands had placed around her understanding of the only word that might come close to touching what she felt.

Her definition didn't include genuine affection and appreciation. There was no space for such a close friendship or moments of pure silliness. She had never tried to include midnight talks, deep thoughts, or character creating beliefs into the four letter word. Nor had it previously included a desire to be vulnerable or seen. Never had she been so close to consumed with the want to know everything about a person. The idea never needed to hold her respect, patience, or generosity unconditionally. It didn't hold the peace and safety she felt in Andrea's presence, the joy at her smile and laugh, or the need to protect and cherish. Her understanding of love was too small and jaded to fit their relationship and it took her some time to realize she didn't need it to. She had other honest words and expressions to explain what she felt and Andrea, who danced with language as much as Miranda did, would understand them (and label them as she wished).

She pulled clean sheet of paper from her printer, intent on creating a draft (because practice and edits make for better understanding than sounds and stutters), but somewhere between her brain and the page her purpose was lost. Each word appeared as a line, punctuation as curves, paragraphs as shading. Layouts and photo shoots danced behind her understanding and her draft took form as visual, a sketch lacking letters. She soon found the page too small, so she pulled another from the printer, lined them up as best she could, and watched as the image spilled over.

When she pulled a third page from the printer, rearranging her thoughts to fit on two pages at a time (because that's all her over-filled desk could hold) she admitted she would not complete it in one day and that some planning would be needed. She spent a little more than an hour making quick sketches and decisions. By the time she finished she rendered a good part of the second page practice and enlarged the contents of the first. She also decided multiple pages would appease her inner perfectionist as it would be much easier to redraw an eight by eleven than it would be to recreate the much larger scale the completed images would fill.

Every night, for the next two weeks, once _The Book_ was completed, Miranda would spend some quiet time in her study adding images, shapes, and colors to the collage of thoughts. After the last detail was colored, Miranda gathered all the pages together and took them to the dining room; the only room in the house with a big enough surface that wasn't floor. She laid the pages out, careful of their order. She couldn't help but be impressed by how tightly they lined up, at how nicely the smaller images and accents floated in the white space.

* * *

Miranda slid the thirty three by twenty six inch stock paper out of the Kinko's poster tube and rolled it out onto the dining room table, two paper weights holding it flat. She was blindly looking at it, trying to decide the best way to broach the subject. _ Would you care to see the picture I drew, instead of writing a letter that was to explain why I have not said "I love you," yet? _ It wasn't what she wanted to lead with, but it was the only option floating around her mind.

Her lack of brainstorming was interrupted by Cassidy calling her name, the tone indicating she wanted something. It was shortly followed by her daughter's presence and distraction; her request swallowed by the large sheet of paper that still held the majority of Miranda's attention. Cassidy said the pictures were 'real pretty' and that one should be drawn for her and her sister. She left, not asking for a thing, and spent the next hour and a half singing about kisses and trees.

When Andrea arrived for dinner, Cassidy's silliness shifted and Caroline joined in. The meal was filled with giggles and smiles; Caroline told stories, Cassidy made teasing interjections, and Andrea played along. Miranda joined in when her thoughts allowed, but mostly they stayed with the images in the other room.

Her phone rang half way through the dessert she wasn't eating. The caller ID said it was Nigel, someone who only called for true emergencies, and she excused herself from the table after she slid the remaining cake toward Caroline (because she shares fairly). As she made her way to her study, all other thoughts were placed on hold.

* * *

Andy already understood Miranda loved her--the other woman's actions spoke louder than she could have imagined--and the collage, hand drawn and heart created, was the equivalent of having it screamed from the rooftop. There were seven large images and more than ten smaller ones. The largest the size of two sheets of paper while the smallest of them looked to be the same size as her palm; however, no two images were the same size. She couldn't help but admire the overall layout and color scheme before she stepped closer for a better look.

The largest picture, a prime example of Miranda's actions, sat in the center and demanded her attention first. It was a picture of the two of them, standing close and holding hands in the foyer. Andy would never forget the look on Miranda's face or the day the picture was taken. They were on their way to a birthday party, moments from leaving when Caroline decided she wanted a photo. Miranda's attention was already on Andy, but Andy had been in the middle of saying something to Cassidy when Caroline snapped the picture, leaving her mouth forever open.

She'd turned to Miranda, ready to joke about how silly she'd look, but the look being directed at her stopped all words, and for a moment, all thought. She remembered her smile at the expression, the sound as the camera clicked again, and the feel as Miranda's hand tightened around hers. Her fingers itched to touch the lines as she remembered how cherished she felt and how gentle the kiss that followed was; she had let go of Miranda's hand only once the entire night. A copy of that second photo sat on Miranda's desk at work--one of her silent exclamations--but Andy would bet her next twelve paychecks that the image was drawn from memory.

Her eyes stayed on that center image, on Miranda's face, for a few long moments before they moved down to the next smaller image. This one was a little bigger than her palm and showed the two of them cuddling on the couch. The picture looked warm and soft and reminded her of the first night they spent together. It had started with shared space and thoughts and turned into deep conversation that went on long enough to become deep yawns. And when she was asked to stay it became shared breaths, comfortable sleep, and peaceful dreams. She knew Miranda's thoughts had taken a very similar path when her eyes moved to the next picture. It was twice the size of the cuddling one, it was them in Miranda's bed, bodies pressed into their favorite sleeping positions. She remembered the statement made weeks after that maybe, for the first time in her adult life, Miranda might not need to sequester her lover to another room.

The next picture, which was off to the right and only slightly smaller, had a background of trees and grass. She stood on one side of the shape with a ball launcher in her hand while Cassidy and Caroline stood on the other, watching her intently. She'd had a great time teaching them how to use the dog toy helper and almost laughed at the memory of twin pouts after she told them they had to share it.

* * *

When Miranda returned the kitchen was empty, as was the living room, and she knew where Andrea was. She knew Cassidy had told the brunette where to go and that brown eyes were roaming over the thoughts laid across the wooden table.

Miranda's thoughts were conflicted as she made her way to the dining room. On one hand, she was grateful she wouldn't have to bring the topic up. Her daughter had done her a favor in that sense. On the other hand, she had no idea how much Andrea would understand from the pictures without the ideas and pieces they came from. Andrea was bright and knew her well, but Miranda wanted there to be no misunderstanding or half thoughts about what she was trying to express. If assumptions were acceptable, she would said those three little words already.

She stood in the doorway and stared at the back of Andrea's head as she took a deep breath. A moment later she watched the taller form shift; she noticed the drop of shoulders, the tilt of the head, a small sway backwards, and knew her presence had been recognized.

As she moved into the room Andrea lifted an arm, hand facing back, encouraging Miranda to make that connection. And the moment she was close enough, she did. She stood close, their shoulders touching, and laced their fingers together. She was trying to figure out what needed to be said, where and how to start, when Andrea turned. Miranda mirrored the movement until they were facing each other, eyes connected, a smile shared. Then Andrea's free hand cupped Miranda's cheek while her smile grew. There was a different quality to her smile, to the brown of her eyes, to the feel of her touch, but before Miranda could categorize the differences she was kissed, and it was _that _ kiss.

And when they pulled apart, foreheads touching, lips left in smiles, Miranda said, "Even so, I'd like to explain."


End file.
